


Sieging

by sanguineOcelot



Series: Sieging! [1]
Category: Dungeon Siege (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-10-20 12:42:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20675576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguineOcelot/pseuds/sanguineOcelot
Summary: A retelling of Dungeon Siege 2, as told by a grumpy old Half-Giant who was present for most of the world-changing events. A note to lovers of Lothar: He's now Lethe, because three male Half-Giants might be too many.





	1. Quest 1: Merc Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a fool's errand is begun - by fools, fittingly enough.
> 
> "Incident report: Koris and Drevin were at it again. The pair of them are incorrigible rogues, and should really be punished more severely. Yes, I am aware that they are children, but who knows what that brute could do when he's grown? He's already as tall as an adult, no sense in treating him too gently."

I blinked the sleep from my eyes as the transport touched down. Strange, isn't it? I've always felt more at home in ships than I did on the ground. As a Half-Giant born in a town of Elves, I'm used to being different, but even so...it's strange, I suppose. On the ship, I'd been the only one able to catch a moment's rest atop the stormy seas. And even now, riding in an over-sized wooden box, carried through the skies by an untrustworthy and viciously stupid dragon, I'd managed to get some rest. I looked over at Drevin, hoping that my oldest friend had managed some rest - but no, of course not. I loved him dearly, considering him a true brother to me after all we'd been through, but my patience was wearing thin with that damned medallion of his.

"Look, Blue, put that thing away or somebody's gonna take it." I called him Blue as a joke, of course - my blue skin was a far more appealing shade, the royal azure of the deep seas, whereas his shock of blue was softer, paler, a robin's-egg sort of shade. But it brought a smile to his face - usually. Not this time. He turned to look at me, and I could tell something was wrong. "Shit, cheer up. Stick by my side, Blue, and you'll be fine. You have the strongest arm in Aman'lu at your side! With my strength and your speed, they don't stand a chance!" It was bravado, of course. I knew little about the Dryads of Greilyn Isle, but from what I'd heard, even a mercenary force this large would be in for quite the fight.

Perhaps a little background would help: My name is Koris, and evidently, I am some kind of idiot. Born in a town of elves, to parents who died when I was still young, I always felt I had to prove myself. My little sister, Imara, was lucky enough to be fully human, and therefore less reviled than I. But when you're seven feet tall, covered in tattoos, and still only five years old, you have a bit of a chip on your shoulder. The thing about my strength was no boast, by the way - from the age of ten, I was the strongest brute in the whole village, able to carry ten times as much as most of the guards. But my footwork was clumsy, my precision was laughable, and I had no idea how the elves managed their graceful, complex dances. But I wanted to make something of myself, regardless. I worked with the blacksmith, learning everything I could about weapons, armor, shields, and even jewelry. I wanted to make beautiful works of art, but that never panned out. Everything I shaped was ugly, brutish, and painfully efficient. My swords were sharper and sturdier than those my my mentor, but nobody around would be caught dead holding such a distasteful lump of metal. So I branched out.

The elves have a tradition: Upon coming of age, their children would leave the village on a journey, accumulating wealth and knowledge of the world, which they would use to start a life for themselves. Mercenary work was always a decent enough bet, and few would turn their noses up at it. Typically, a returning elf would declare his intentions to the village, who would gather around to celebrate the child's passage into adulthood. Sometimes, those who returned would be far nicer and more tolerant towards me than they had been when they left. Once, a returning elf actually apologized to me for his cruel words. I was dumbfounded. Perhaps the clarity and perspective that they gained on their travels made them a better-rounded, more mature person. But I was young, and stupid, and headstrong. I knew what I wanted, and for the first time in my life, I was competing with somebody: Drevin.

Our parents were friends, I think. His mom and my mom grew up together. That's why their family took me and my sister in, and it's why we were so close. He was fast in the same sense that I was strong: the word hardly did it justice. Precise and perfect as a striking snake, Drevin had a knack for finding the weak point in a foe's armor, and delivering a debilitating blow to precisely the right spot. Our skills were complimentary, and we worked well as a team. But he was a young man, just as I was, and our greatest agreement was on her. Finala. A no-nonsense, mechanically-inclined elf whose solutions to life's problems were similar to my own. I favored an axe, sure, whereas she had a flair for Combat Magic, but we got on magnificently. But I knew that Drevin, upon his return, was planning to ask her to marry him. I went to one of the few Elders who treated me with respect, and asked him for advice.

Amren, wise and old, blessed with incredible vision of the mystical and mundane varieties, consoled me. "Go with your friend, Drevin. If something happens to him, and you are not there, you would never forgive yourself. Moreover, should you and he return as a team, bearing gold and the skills you'll need to make your way in the world, what cause could she have to favor him over you? I have seen you three, playing in the forests, and I know that it is you she loves, as you love her. It may hurt Drevin to see her choose you, but he will understand - especially if you drop hints, over the course of your journeys, that you plan to marry her upon your return."

Giving him my thanks, I left at once, finding Drevin and outlining my plan: We would go on our journey together, as brothers, watching one another's backs and supporting each other. If he knew my secondary motivation, he didn't show it - looking back, I suspect he knew. Not that it mattered, in the end. His only concern at the time was that I was still young - sixteen was plenty old, I argued, as half-giants tend to mature quickly - and that our sisters may not approve of such a matter. But they did, and threw us a going-away party, singing songs and dancing and even revealing the gift they had been preparing for Drevin: A beautiful shield, one of my best pieces of work, but modified to be substantially more aesthetically pleasing. The crest of his family was etched into the center, and comfortable leather straps had been adjusted precisely for his arm. It was even inlaid with the same pattern of silver leaves and vines that twined around his father's hammer, a light little weapon of considerable weight. With them both, he looked like a proper warrior, and I was proud to stand beside him.

My choice of weaponry was a little more simple: A greatsword by the standards of most humans and elves, I had made it for my own hands, and could swing it easily enough one-handed, or take a firm grip with both hands to deliver a more powerful blow. I knew it was ugly and over-sized, but honestly, I found a comforting similarity to myself in it. At eight and a half feet tall, I was large, even for my kind, and though I had filled out with muscle, I knew I wasn't what anybody would call 'handsome'. I was efficient, however, and durable, much as the blade I carried. It was shaped perfectly for my style, primarily composed of sharp chops and crushing thrusts, but with the occasional elven technique thrown in. One move that I was especially proud of was a sort of parry-riposte that, when performed correctly, could bat aside an attacking blade and impale the person holding it, in one fluid motion. It horrified the elves to see their maneuvers being used in such a way, but I took a quiet satisfaction in that. "Let them play at war," I confided to Imara, after a long day of practice. "I was born to it. The blood of Giants flows in my veins, their brands mark my flesh, and their fury lives in my bones. I will be the greatest warrior Aman'lu has ever seen."

Drevin and I left together the night after our feast, neither of us wanting to admit that we were hung over, and made our way towards the lands of humans. We had a choice before us, with two separate armies looking to recruit. Snowbrook Haven was calling for any able-bodied men and women to help it hold the walls against some sort of impending siege, but that sounded more like soldiering than actual mercenary adventure. So off we went to Kalrathia, to sign up with a prince named Valdis and his army. When we got there, we found they were mostly Morden, but hell, we weren't concerned by that. Neither Drevin nor I had had much reason to distrust them, after all, so what could the harm be? Two days later, we were kitted out with some standard chain mail and regulation helmets, and hopping in a transport headed off to Greilyn, home of the Dryads.

I should have known better. But if I had, would things have really turned out any better?


	2. Quest 2: Turned Coats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which foolish young mercenaries learn the price of power, and pieces are set into motion.
> 
> "You have to admit, those kids don't do anything in half measures. The big one ripped a Taclak warrior in half with his bare hands - and the elf literally, LITERALLY, outran the wind. I didn't know either of those was possible. They'll be great, if they can ever stop being idiots."

The assault on Greilyn...could have gone better, if I'm going to be completely honest. The Morden hit hard, the mercenary squads working well with the heavy infantry and cavalry to clear a landing zone. Once the dragons began dropping off their transports, the Morden established a foothold, fortifying the beach and expanding the operations zone. Primary resistance was from a type of creature called Bracken, essentially humanoid forms of wood and magic. Alone, they weren't much threat, but as a whole, they were dangerous as hell. I saw a number of Mercenaries and Morden alike brought down by sheer numbers, swarmed and ripped apart by their clawed hands. Reinforcing them were the Protectors, a type of four-legged wooden construct the Dryads favored. Mostly, they seemed to be shaped like over-sized stumps, with four larger roots grown into legs, save for the ominous hole where a head would be expected - a hole that, it turned out, fired bolts of bitterly cold magic, ice shards that exploded on impact. These caught several of the Morden-Graal fire mages by surprise, turning them to frozen sculptures before they could gather their magic up. However, both Bracken and Protectors were vulnerable to fire, which the Morden had in abundance.

We advanced through the trenches, dug by hand and reinforced with wooden planks, usually keeping us safe from the arrows of the still-distant Dryad archers. Usually. As we passed a Morden Medical outpost, my curiosity got the best of me. I approached a wounded Morden, asking him if I could do anything to help. "Yes," he responded, "DIE and leave me a pint of your blood!" I shook my head, returning to my squad - only to see a familiar face, up on the ridge of the next trench over, putting arrows in my Morden associates. "Amren?!" He simply smiled at me, loosing an arrow off that killed a Morden not two feet away, and turned to vanish over the ridge, returning to his duties. Drevin and I shared a worried look. If Amren was working with the Dryads, there had to be a reason - as well as a reason that he hadn't simply killed us when he had the chance. Unable to work out anything further, we pressed on, eager to finish the job.

Deeper into the island, we began to encounter the dreaded Ketril, ten-foot-tall lizard-like beasts with layers of thick muscle and heavy bone protecting them from most harm. Drevin was nearly killed by one as it ambushed us, but I was able to match the creature's strength and tear its limbs off. Emboldened by my power, our squad pushed on, taking the Ketril with combined firepower each time: Arrows in its face, Drevin and another elf cutting its hamstrings, and a burst of ice to cripple it, followed by me delivering the killing blow: a two-handed chop across its neck, cleanly severing the head. We did this enough to get comfortable with the routine, before we finally made it to the temple we were after. Some kind of ancient Agallan relic lay here, undisturbed for centuries, waiting for the right time to be recovered. As we neared the Temple, Drevin called for a momentary break, five minutes, and took me aside. Something in his eyes told me it was important, and I did not argue.

"Brother, I know you don't like hearing about my visions, but this is important," he began. A wonderful start. But I stifled a groan, if only to resist offending him. "I don't know what's going to happen at the temple, but I want you to wear my medallion. I...feel that the time has come to pass it to you." I was dumbfounded. Drevin's medallion was priceless to him, a family heirloom passed down more than a hundred generations. I started to ask him why, but he just shook his head, smiling sadly. "I'll explain later, if all goes well. And if it doesn't, please, look after my family. Our family. Alright?" I took the medallion, and assured him that, of course, I would. Not that it seemed to matter. We were so close to success, I couldn't imagine anything going wrong. To placate him, I agreed, firmly taking his hand in a reassuring grip. "We'll be alright," I told him.

When we returned to our squad, they were finishing their preparations for the final assault: An Alpha Ketril stood between us and the Temple, and would be far stronger, and more vicious, than its lesser brethren. Even with its might, however, it could not stop the combined might of Aman'lu's greatest warriors, and after the brutal fight, I took one of its foot-long fangs as a trophy. Drevin never understood why I did that, but trophy-taking is deeply ingrained in the psyche of every Half-Giant. Perhaps some have learned to control that instinct, but I never did. I never saw the point. Why shouldn't I be proud of my victories? There were fangs to go around, if anybody else in the squad wanted one, but none of them seemed so inclined. I shrugged. Not my business. And so I accompanied them to the Temple doors, arriving just in time to see the Rustguards awaken.

Fifteen feet tall, human in shape apart from the four arms, and each hand carrying a sword as large as Drevin, the Rustguards were an impressive sight. Swinging their blades in efficient arcs, they began to chew through the forces assembled against them. Though only four in number, they proved a match for the hundreds of troops gathered - until the Nature Mages stepped in. Morden-Graal skilled in the use of ice, the way their counterparts had perfected fire, they froze the Rustguards solid, every joint filling with ice, every hollow pocket within the ancient constructs abruptly crystallizing. It was at this moment that I noticed just how old the sentries were: Moss had spread over their bodies, tarnished metal poking through here and there, their blades chipped and flaked with age. But that didn't stop me. I hurled myself forwards, throwing my weight against the chest of a frozen Rustguard, and felt it shatter on the impact, bringing it down with a surge of triumphant pride. The others followed suit, shattering our foes to pieces, and we went into the Temple, leaving the exhausted Ice Graal mages outside. Their jobs done, they had earned their rest.

The sight of the Temple made my heart soar for a jubilant moment. The architecture was Pre-Azunite, to be sure, showing the telltale signs of construction by the Agallan Giants - my people, some part of me whispered, despite my knowledge that they would never accept me as one of theirs. And at the alter sat a gorgeous object - a flat, smooth tablet of stone, bearing the Azunite sigil of the Tree of Life, a powerful icon in their mythos. I wondered why the Dryads would have such a thing - until I noticed the Rustguards, unfolding themselves from the walls, awakening to fight the intruders as their home was threatened. More than a dozen of them, and us without our Ice Graal. It was going to be a slaughter - until the floor shook, an inhuman bellow shaking the walls, and a mighty form dropping through the ceiling. Standing a few feet taller than even me, the Prince was hard to recognize. I had heard that he was human, but no human in the world was twelve feet tall, and built more solidly than four stone outhouses bolted together. The sword in his hand sent shivers down my spine - a greatsword, similar to my own, save for the gleaming red eyes embedded along its length, spreading an organic-looking coating along the metal, so that the weapon almost seemed to be alive. With a bellow, the Prince charged the Rustguards, destroying them each with a single powerful swing. I stood in awe, barely able to comprehend the power that he carried so brazenly, so casually, demolishing the animated statues that had just as easily decimated our numbers.

As the rubble settled, we approached him, Drevin speaking for our squad as a whole. "Well, Valdis, the temple is yours. When can we expect our pay?" I realized something was wrong, a moment before the others, and began to curl defensively, lifting a heavy shield I'd taken from a Morden Lancer earlier, and barking out a warning. But Drevin had seen it too. The bloodthirsty glint in Valdis' eyes - nearly identical to those in his sword - spoke volumes. His sword swept up in a backhand, and for a moment, all I could see was Drevin, outlined by golden fire, shield raised to defend, his father's hammer in his hand, ready to return the blow. But everything went red, and then black, a splitting pain in my skull mercifully subsiding as I lost consciousness.

I didn't know it then, but Valdis didn't care about the Temple. I learned later that he'd taken the tablet - the Aegis of Life - and ordered the Temple burned, his Morden destroying a large stretch of the Greilyn Jungle where the Dryads lived in petty revenge for their resistance - not that I ever saw a single Dryad up close, all through the battle. Their style was to shoot arrows from afar, letting their pawns and creatures fight on the front lines for them. After the battle, they kept to their city of Eirulan, somewhere in the jungle, hidden from the Morden. Their scouts captured many mercenary forces in the aftermath, abandoned or outright attacked by their Morden 'allies'. Nearly two hundred of us were rounded up - including me, my unconscious form taken from the pile of wreckage left in Valdis' wake.

I awoke in a cell, stripped of my belongings and gear. My Dryad captors had thoughtfully provided a set of clothing for me - too small to wear, however, leaving me nude in a wooden cage. Outside my cage were a pair of Dryads, speaking in undertones to one another, though they were still close enough for me to hear them. "I'm just saying, what could be the harm?" "Come on, Deru, the Warden said he's dangerous! You heard about what he did to those Ketril!" "HAH! That's ridiculous, Taar! Nobody can tear a Ketril apart! Besides, doesn't the danger just make it more fun? I bet I could get a ride or two in before he even wakes up. Wanna join me?" Deciding that enough was enough, I rolled to my feet, grabbing the bars closest to them and letting out a bellow of rage. To my satisfaction, the pair of them backed away in terror - though once they had taken several steps back, their gaze fell from my angry face. Right. I'd forgotten I was still naked. Luckily, the guards of the Dryad prison were closing in, accompanied by the Warden herself. As she approached, another captured mercenary - evidently put to work to repair some minor damages - lunged at her, hammer held aloft to crack her skull open.

He made it four steps before he simply fell, clutching at his throat, where a fierce red line of energy seemed to have wrapped around his throat - killing him, sadly, and much to the Warden's disgust. "Pathetic creature. Were it up to me, we'd simply execute you all and be done with it. However, Amren the elf has spoken highly of you, and it is on his recommendation that I am giving you the chance to earn your freedom. Do you understand?" As I nodded my agreement, the Warden turned to the two who had been speaking about me, a glare on her face that could curdle milk. "YOU TWO! Get out of my damn prison, if you know what's good for you!" Shocked out of their daydreams, the two took off, giggling to themselves all the way. The Warden looked me over, her disgust obvious on her face. "Put some clothes on, you fool, you're embarrassing yourself." I replied that I was quite comfortable, actually, but I had no desire to make anybody nervous. I tore apart the offered leather chestplate and greaves, fashioning them into a sort of kilt, a tasteful covering to hold until I could find something better to wear.

The Warden's expression suggested that I'd just made an enemy for life with my desecration of the armor, but another thought quickly overwhelmed that. "Where's Drevin? He's an elf, blue hair, probably inured." I may have spoken a touch too loudly, as the Warden took a step back, but she answered as coldly as before. "We pulled you from beneath the corpse of a blue-haired elf at the temple. There were no other survivors from that group - just a mess of bodies and blood profaning what was left of our Temple." I sat heavily, my mind reeling. Drevin couldn't be dead! Weren't elves supposed to be able to predict their own deaths? Why hadn't he - the amulet. My hands shot to my neck, feeling only the same restrictive, thin metal collar the dead prisoner had been wearing - which had, of course, killed him. "Where is my medallion?" The words came out lower and harsher than I had intended, causing some of the guards to turn their weapons towards me.

The Warden shook her head, a look of grudging acceptance in her eyes. "If you prove yourself useful and loyal, your equipment will be returned to you, and your collar removed. You will run errands and perform menial work until we are satisfied that your crimes have been repaid. Or, you can sit in that cell and rot. Preference?" I took several minutes to decide this matter - time mostly spent sizing up the Dryads, their defenses, the Warden herself, and my odds of killing her before the collar could kill me. Eventually, however, the numbers became perfectly clear. I was given a basket of sharpening stones, and sent off to a nearby Dryad outpost, without any gear beyond the simple leather-and-vines kilt I had fashioned for myself. Near the gate stood a pair of figures, bickering and arguing over something irrelevant. One of them, a Dryad, had a bow slung across her back, and a surly demeanor. The other one, however, nearly stopped my breath.

I don't know why Half-Giants are almost always male. It has something to do with the magic, the curse, that created our race in the first place. A group of Agallan Giants branched off from the main tribe, a cadre of proud warriors who refused to retreat from the world. The Agallan king, in his wrath, cursed them as outcasts, marking their flesh and diminishing their stature, until they were shameful wretches, larger than the still-young Humans, but woefully meager compared to their Agallan origins. They wandered the land, and as there were no females of their tribe, interbred with other species. The male children were far more likely to be a Half-Giant like their father, but the females would invariably be their mother's race. Once every few years, a female Half-Giant was born, but the curse ran in her blood as well, tattooing her skin in the same runes as the rest of us - but also leaving her barren, unable to bear children. It seemed needlessly cruel to me, but perhaps I was biased on the matter.

She turned to me and offered a slight nod, which I returned, a wary caution in each of us as we sized one another up. Her skin was the same rich blue color as mine, though her frame less muscled than my own. She wore a flowing robe of rich silks, studded here and there with magical gems, and the staff in her hand was larger than her Dryad friend. Originally a fishing harpoon, tipped with a massive shark's tooth, the blackened wood practically hummed with power, and I recognized it as a mage's staff. Likely a Combat Mage, if the occasional sparks arcing across the tooth were any indication. I wondered how I must have looked to her: Wearing a kilt and a collar, without any weapons or armor, I must have been quite a sight. But she offered her hand to me, offering her name as she did. "Lethe." I responded in kind, trading my name for hers and shaking her hand.

"Heading out to the outpost, are you? Gets a little rough out there. I bet twenty gold he doesn't make it, Sparky." That was the Dryad speaking, haughtily looking me over and - WAIT! it was one of the two who had been standing outside my cage! I suppressed the rage bobbling up, and instead gave her a frosty reply: "Come with me, Twig, and watch me yourself. I'll take that bet, and happily prove you wrong." Lethe's eyes gleamed at that, and she and the Dryad stepped aside to discuss the matter. I waited, of course - I didn't have any serious schedule to keep anyways. When they returned, they bore identical unsettling grins. "Tell ya what," the insufferable plant-woman started. "You call me Deru, not Twig, and I'll watch your back - in exchange for a cut of whatever loot you pull down. Gold, trinkets, whatever. Sparky comes with us, to make sure you don't do anything stupid."

I looked to Lethe, for some sort of confirmation, but found only glittering amusement in her eyes. Giving them both a magnanimous shrug, I turned towards the gate. "Fair enough," I drawled, trying to seem nonchalant about the matter. "Rules for travelling with me: Keep up or get left behind. Make your own sleeping arrangements. Five-minute breaks every hour. And I'm calling dibs on the first pair of pants we find that fit me." Without waiting to see if they were following, I strolled off towards the forest. The footsteps behind me suggested that I'd picked up a couple of followers. Things could be worse, I supposed - though of course, they were about to be. If only I'd known, then, what hells awaited me, perhaps I would have stayed reasonably safe in my cell.


	3. Quest 3: Once Bitten, Twice Mad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a fool learns that teamwork is a beautiful thing, and perhaps grows a bit.
> 
> "We need to do something about the big one. He's got Berserk blood in him - don't they all? - and at this rate, he'll fly into a rage and destroy the village!"

The outpost was a mess when we got there. I'll just say that now, so nobody assumes anything about what I may or may not have done. It wasn't on fire, sure, but how does that matter? Let me back up a bit: the Morden were there. They had ambushed the Dryads manning the outpost, and driven them back into a cage used for dangerous outlaws and captured beasts. Maybe not the best place for criminals to be held, less than half a league from the capital city of the Dryads, but I suppose it was about as sturdy as the one they'd had me in. One look at the bars, and I knew they would splinter at my touch. The thought made my collar throb unpleasantly, turning my attention back to the task at hand: The Morden.

They hadn't noticed me yet. Perfect. My blood began to boil at the sight of them - they and their boss had murdered my friend. My brother. Drevin. The world splintered around me, and I flew into a rage, for the first time since my childhood. Everything went red - and I returned to my senses some time later, a Morden's shield in one hand and a splintered lance in the other. Taking slow, deep breaths, I turned to survey my surroundings - or what was left of them. Morden parts lay scattered all about, assorted viscera and gore strewn about in a festive manner. The real problem, however, was the outpost. It had been torn to shreds, far worse than the Morden had been, wooden beams splintered and thrown through trees. Past the wreckage, closer to the town, stood the Dryad patrol - all three of them, sitting on the remains of a crate, while Deru and Lethe watched over them. Noticing my gaze, Deru said something harsh, giving her friend a shove - not that it moved her. Even so, Lethe strolled over to me, making a big show of leaning her staff against a pile of wreckage.

"Hey there, big guy. You, uh...you doing alright?" I recognized the tone of voice she was using. Back home, Galeron would use that same tone on skittish, dangerous animals, fresh from the wilds to be tamed into pets. It was the tone you use to calm down an angry bear that may or may not have decided on eating you yet. Looking down at my hands, and the wreckage around me...I realized that the tone was warranted. I had become an animal, no matter how briefly, and I had been a threat to everybody around me. I gave her a rueful smile, dropping the makeshift weapons from my hands and looking around for something useful. "Sorry about that, Lethe. I'm just...I guess I'm not dealing with this too well." She stared at me, obviously skeptical with my answer, but didn't press the issue. Unfortunately, the Morden's armor was torn to useless bits - clearly, somebody got a little carried away. Won't name any names. On the other hand, I scavenged up a sword and shield, relatively undamaged, and a pair of Morden boots that fit me.

An hour later, we were on our way out into the jungle - the Morden had to have a forward base out there somewhere. We followed the old footpath through Dryad trails, defending ourselves from animals and the locals of the jungle - a small, twitchy lot that called themselves "The Hak'u". It wasn't long until we found a checkpoint - a Morden checkpoint. They took one look at us and assumed we were more of their Mercenary forces, which I suppose made sense. They simply waved us through, to a shoddily-constructed tower peeking above the treetops. When a foolish Captain halted us at the tower's base to ask us for our clearance passwords, we responded with all the rational courtesy you would expect: I ran him through and spent my rage on his subordinates, while Deru watched my flanks and Lethe burned their tower to a husk. Once her flames reached the stored blasting charges, the entire tower exploded, throwing a shower of flaming debris and wooden shards high into the sky. Obviously, my companions were less than thrilled with it, but on the other hand, I didn't care.

"You're a Berserker." The statement caught me by surprise. I hadn't even realized Lethe had come up beside me. I racked my brain for something witty and suave to say, but nothing came. "Get back in formation" was about the best I could manage, emphasizing the order we had agreed upon: me in the front, Deru at the back, and Lethe between us, guarded from both directions. I was most resilient, and Deru had the best sense for being hunted, so it was a reasonable arrangement. As long as we kept to it, anyways. But she didn't seem dissuaded. "We had a few, back in my tribe. The blood always ran pretty hot through certain family lines. But there's something different abut yours. More focused, driven. You don't just turn into an animal. Why is that?"

I didn't answer. How could I? I didn't know a damn thing about my family lineage, or where I came from. That was an empty subject for me. Sure, I'd thought about it before, but it had never gotten me anywhere. I turned to explain this to her, but found in my peripheral vision another Morden tower - the fourth one thus far. We dispatched it in the same manner as the previous ones, opening the pathway to some sort of shrine - but as we passed through the wreckage, a trunk caught my eye. Opening it, we discovered a map that Deru recognized as the jungle - and marked in four places with crude symbols that I recognized as representing Morden towers. The four, of course, that we had just destroyed. I relayed this to my compatriots, and showed them that we were near a Teleporter - one of the ancient, magical stone pillars that formed a transportation network all over Aranna. We placed our hands to it, and answering the rare stone in Deru's possession, it took us back to the home of the Dryads.

Of course, I wasn't exactly expecting a hero's welcome, but I mean, come on. A celebration would be nice. Maybe a feast. But anything would have been better than the revulsion and terror they displayed. Sure, I understood, partly. Along the way, I had scrounged up a set of armor, a Morden chestplate and greaves bolstered by patches of chainmail, and extra plates where needed. On my head rested a Lorethal Helm - one of many, I had assured my companions. Many people never saw more than one of the exquisitely-crafted pieces of a Lorethal suit, and assumed the gold-plated plate mail was unique. But alas, it was actually the style, not the individual, that gave the name Lorethal to the suits. Imposing and rare though the helmet was, I wasn't sure why the Dryads seemed so furious. The Warden sent me to their Town Hall, where I learned the reasons.

Taar, a Dryad and a friend of Deru, was there to meet us. She was happy to remove the enchanted collar, the last sign of my imprisonment, and returned my possessions, but she backed away when she saw my wounds. When I explained that they were minor, and weren't life-threatening, she explained her trepidation: "The beasts of the forest carry a deadly plague, a madness of the soul that causes their blood to burn with rage and drives them to feral insanity." I had to acknowledge what I had seen, of course, and she continued. "Then you are infected, too. There is no cure. I am sorry."

A dull ache settled in my bones at the news, and I found myself speaking without thinking. "No. I refuse to die like this. When every Morden lies dead, and I grind Valdis' mangled corpse into the dirt, then I will consider retirement. But never will I accept death." Taar was moved by compassion - but before she could speak, I saw her eyes light up . Slowly, hesitantly, she told me of an Elven shrine, which carried the Healing Waters of Aman'lu in its deepest recesses. A sip of that, I knew, would heal any disease. Shouldering my well-forged, comfortingly familiar bastard sword, I gave Taar a cheerful grin. "We could always use a skilled Nature Mage, you know," I offered. I could tell by the glitter in her eyes that she was thrilled by this - and the hug confirmed it.

And so it was that four pairs of boots, not three, stood before the Eirulan teleporter the next morning. Taar and Deru attired in the traditional woven-vines-and-bark armor of their people, Lethe in a comfortable silk robe, and me in the well-fitted mercenary's plate I had arrived in, with my sword slung across my shoulder for an easy draw. With Drevin's medallion around my neck, I felt invincible - despite his fate while wearing it, I nevertheless felt protected by it, as though his spirit lingered on. I kept his hammer and shield, of course, leaving them in the safety of my pack. I would return them to Drevin's sister, when I someday returned home. But for the time being, I had work to do. There was Elven water to drink, Morden to kill, and vengeance to claim. My bloodlust raged in my chest, but I quelled the Berserker rage before it could control me. I was ready to fight.

At least, I thought I was.


	4. Quest 4: Exiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Duty and Destiny conflict with romance at the worst of times.
> 
> "Home is where you hang your enemy's head at the end of a long, brutal day of war."

I'm going to be blunt for a minute: not only could this bit have gone better, but everything that came after? ALL of it could have gone better. Substantially better. And honestly, it should have, all things considered. But alas, that's not how Fate weaves its webs. We started off on exactly the wrong foot, of course. Taking a wrong turn at the Teleporter, we found ourselves in the throne room of a "Hak'u Usurper", who assumed that we were spies of the Hak'u King - which I did not even know was a thing. I didn't know any of that was a thing. We may not have said the right things, and in the end, we had to kill them. I'll spare you the details, because who wants to hear about a blood-mad Half-Giant crushing murderous pygmies beneath his mighty boot? I would later learn that we had just ended a decades-old Hak'u Civil War, but at the time, that didn't seem particularly interesting to me. When we retraced our steps, I found a clearly-marked sign for the Elven Shrine, which we must have walked right past on our way to the Hak'u temple.

Thoroughly chagrined, we checked in with the Dryad Outpost near the Shrine. They helpfully assured me that "Plague victims like you belong in the Exile colony!" and demanded that I leave at once. Bowing to their wishes - and eager to leave - we made haste to the Shrine. I'll admit, I expected more, inside. There were Hak'u infesting the ruins, which we cleared out fairly easily, and a number of puzzles involving small stones and matching sockets. Not particularly difficult, they seemed more a challenge to my patience than my intellect. Red socket, red stone, purple socket, purple stone. Yawn. At the end of these puzzles sat a gorgeous necklace with a massive sapphire in it, inscribed with Elven writing and humming with secret charms. Deru excitedly told me that this was the Lost Sapphire of the Elves, and that a wealthy socialite of Eirulan had been offering a massive reward for it for years. I laughed that off. The Sapphire, if it were truly an Elven artifact, belonged with the Elven people. I securely packed it beside Drevin's shield, another keepsake to return to Aman'lu when I finally got there.

Once we had solved the puzzles, found several hidden doors, and kicked in those doors to several Traveler's Sanctuaries, we made our way to the lowest bowels of the Shrine, wherein lay the Shrine. I gathered a flask of the water, should I ever need it again, and drank enough of it to work its magic on me...not that it did anything, as far as I could tell. My bones still ached from my previous wounds, which had been knitted closed by Taar's healing magics, and the dull rage in the back of my mind still simmered unpleasantly. There seemed to be no effect from drinking it. But I accepted it as a necessary procedure, and in the next room, I was thrilled to find another Teleporter. Deru, exasperated by my incessant exploring, simply handed me her Activation Stone, giving me access to its expansive network of...three Teleporters, including and entirely limited to this one, the one in Eirulan, and the one just past the Morden towers. I stared blankly at her, earning myself nothing more than a sharp look and a rebuke of "Well, if you're so great, YOU go attune it to more stones!" Which, obviously, I did, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Taar, however, had an idea. The water I had gathered would be enough to cure those unlucky Dryads in the Exile Colony, who had suffered from the Plague without any hope of a cure. I had my doubts, of course, feeling no different, but the gleam in her eyes assured me that she was serious about this. And as it was on the way, I saw no reason not to. Snagging the Ceremonial Knife from a nearby Hak'u Witch Doctor to keep as a trophy, I gladly agreed, and we returned to Eirulan to restock on supplies. Leaving the city the next morning, of course, we made another wrong turn into a little cave - where we were assaulted by a vicious, terrifying, murderous beast. Sure, it was only two feet tall, but it bit like a monster and was impervious to most conventional weaponry. Fortunately, the Ceremonial Knife the Hak'u had dropped seemed to dispel its resilience, and it bled out far quicker than I would have expected. Then again, how much blood could be in a body the size of a turkey? I took its head, another trophy for my belt, and we carried on.

The jungle was an unpleasant place to be, filled with creatures and Morden stragglers that attempted to stop us. But we were a well-rounded group. Deru's arrows flew true and bit deep, Lethe's command of fire and lightning - not to mention the distasteful Death energies - blasted our foes to pieces, and even Taar's command of Ice and Stone magics complimented her healing abilities. I was the front line, of course, the impassable wall of steel and fury that no foe could breach. In this fashion, we ground our foes into the dirt, beast and soldier alike. We could not be stopped. We burned with purpose, our hearts strong and indomitable. Each of us had our own reasons, of course. I sought revenge for my brother. Deru sought the thrill of battle. Lethe was there to keep her closest friend safe. And Taar, bless her leafy heart, just wanted to help people.

During a few of our stops, Taar and I got to talking. We actually hit it off pretty quickly, and I told her stories of Aman'lu. She told me about her family - turns out the Warden was her Aunt - and we shared stories of our youths. It wasn't too hard, really, to picture her as a little.....sprout? Twig? Sapling? I settled on sapling, earning a playful shove from her. It was strange, but Taar was.....enchanting. I found my pain at the loss of my brother fading as I talked to her. She knew better than to ask about Drevin, but I told her anyways. About our families, our youth together. Even about Finala, who now seemed no more than a faded memory. I marveled at how quickly my childish infatuation had dried up, in the face of the world outside Aman'lu.

Lethe and I also connected, though on a less playful topic, sharing our knowledge and experiences as Half-Giants. It's something our kind do, when meeting new members of our species: We take the opportunity to grow, as a people, breaking misconceptions and exchanging useful tidbits that might help each other. It's hard to understand, for outsiders, I'm sure. But any Half-Giant reading this will understand what I mean...and they'll understand why I tactfully gloss over the specifics of what was said. Suffice it to say, the world was looking a little less grim after we talked.

After a day or so, we found the Exile colony, following the marked path - but when we arrived, it was chaos. The exiled Dryads, mad with bloodlust, were attempting to kill an old human man. He was a frail old scholar, able to heal himself as quickly as they hurt him, but it was clear that he wouldn't last long. The looks on their faces told me everything I needed to know: They were mad with hate, a rage that would not release them until they were dead, or everything else was. Abandoning my usual position, I charged through their ranks, shouldering them aside, and swept the scholar up in one hand, setting him high atop a makeshift hut's roof. I turned to face the blood-mad Dryads, bellowing out a wordless challenge, a warning to desist. Animals would have heeded it, and turned tail, but they simply attacked me with renewed vigor. I tried not to focus on their faces, tried not to notice how very much like Taar they looked, young and frail and torn apart by their own hate.

Xeria help me, I did what had to be done. As long as I live, I will never forget that day, despite the following months, and all the horrible things I saw thereafter. I did my duty, mechanically, without emotion, my limbs carrying out the work as though there were nothing to it. And when it was done, I turned to the scholar, to aid him however I could. I couldn't bring myself to look at my friends. I couldn't meet their horrified gazes. Lethe, at least, understood. But the others...no. I pushed the thoughts from my mind as the Scholar explained his purpose here:

"I came seeking answers, young ones. I recognized this plague for what it is: A sickening madness brought about by Valdis. He has discovered the sword of Zaramoth, and now seeks the shattered pieces of the Shield of Azunai to repair it. He hopes to remake the world by controlling these powerful artifacts - and believes himself to be Zaramoth reborn!" I knew the legends - what Half-Giant doesn't? Zaramoth had been an Utgard, one of the race I was descended from, and took the throne of the Empire Of Stars from its last true Emperor, through guile and treachery and foul magics. He had been opposed by Azunai the Defender, a bold warrior from whom the Azunites were descended, whose blood ran with his powers. A thousand years ago, when Azunai's Shield met Zaramoth's Sword - a blade of immense hunger, that could only be carried by one of potent Utgard blood - it shattered, unleashing energies that caused the Cataclysm, and ended the First Age in fire.

The Scholar explained that the Aegis of Greilyn Isle had been one of four shards, each Aegis a crucial piece of the shield, and shame filled my heart. I had been a part of Valdis' plan to steal the Aegis of Life, and it was at least partially my fault that he had succeeded. I knew my duty. I must stop Valdis' plan, return the Dryad's Aegis, and end this Plague that had infected their island home. I thought that, maybe, I could do something right, to fix the wrongs I had inflicted on them. Even if they saw me as a Morden soldier, a loose canon, a plagued and maddened beast, they had spared my life. They had returned Drevin's medallion. And nobody, not even a Dryad - perhaps especially not a Dryad, I thought, Taar's face suddenly coming to mind - deserved to suffer. The Scholar, perhaps seeing the determination in my eyes, gave me some gold and potions for my help, thanking me profusely for my aid and wishing me all the best. He stood back and simply vanished from sight - a fairly simple teleportation spell, Lehthe assured me - to allow us to continue on our way. I silently thanked him for his help.

If I had known what awaited me, I might not have been so thankful.


	5. Quest 5: Ghosts and Glory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a face from the past offers little in the way of help, and an ancient foe reveals its lack of a face.
> 
> "He'll make a damned fine blacksmith, someday, if he can ever learn to stop fighting. But what are the odds on that? Those damn kids, the both of them, are warriors at heart. They'll never settle down and lead a life of peace. Then again, if either of them took up farming, I'd kill them myself. Nothing special ever came of a common farmer."

We came upon some ruins not far past the Exile Colony. Taar tried to engage me in conversation a few times, but...I'll admit, I wasn't very talkative. Lethe helped me out a little bit, pulling Taar back into formation and warning her not to stray. I couldn't talk to her. Couldn't let my mind stray back to the plagued Dryads I'd put down. Bile rose in my throat when I thought of them. But when we came to the ruins, I made up my mind. Once we'd cleared a space to spend the night, I'd take her aside and explain. The Hak'u infesting the ruins were no threat to us, by now, but I saw a sign that chilled my blood, banishing all thoughts of soft words and compassion. Those that fight the Taclak never forget the markings they leave behind on conquered dens, and I recognized it immediately. Gesturing for my companions to be careful, I crept forwards, stalking whatever was around the corner. Its footsteps were too loud to be a diminutive Hak'u, and it was...pacing. Taclak paced, when they were antsy. It was good enough for me. I hurled myself around the corner, letting out a bone-rattling battle cry of rage - that promptly dwindled to nothing as I saw my would-be victim.

"Feldwyr!" The blacksmith of Aman'lu lifted himself from his terrified crouch, staring at me in wonder. "You...blood and fire, boy, how many times have I told you not to scare me like that!" Laughing like old friends, we hugged it out, with manly back-slapping aplenty. Feldwyr was never the kind to mince words or express feelings, so I knew I wouldn't get much friendly reminiscing from him, but we'd bonded over his old forge when I was young, and he made it clear that he was happy to see me. My companions, not so much. He was equally clear about that. Inviting us to his table only reluctantly - and at my insistence - he set out the roast boar he'd hunted that day, inviting us all to dig in. His barrel of well-aged mead, I noticed, he kept entirely to himself. Not an issue, of course, Taar and Deru were well-stocked on crisp, pure water, while Lethe and I shared a bottle of Dwarven wine she'd picked up somewhere.

Perhaps a little background is required, before I go any further. Feldwyr was one of the few residents of Aman'lu who was never intimidated by me. He looked past the tattoos, the ancient curse of my blood, and saw an angry, restless boy who just wanted a purpose. Some reason to exist, some sense of belonging. And while he could have cursed me out of his forge and told me to join the Guard, he never did. He had apprentices aplenty, but he offered me a place at his side anyways, learning from a man six centuries past the usual age of retirement, to learn an art more noble than most people understand. That said....he was also a bitter old man, a drunk and a bigot, whose sharp tongue flayed friend and foe alike. He was a deeply unlikeable sort, and it was only the years of association with him that had given me the skills to endure his ways.

To be blunt, Feldwyr was always an old-fashioned sort of man. He was staunchly traditional in most regards, and despite traveling far and wide in search of new materials and tools, he wasn't altogether worldly. When he went to Glaecern to learn secret blacksmithing techniques from the Dwarves - a rare honor, of course - he came back bitterly resentful, assuring anybody who would listen that "it just ain't right, what they're doing down there" and refusing to talk about it further. In the end, he had admitted that the Dwarven method wasn't the Aman'lu traditional style, and his problems with it stemmed from the fact that "it's just not done that way around here." When I perused the book of Dwarven techniques they had given him, I found plenty of useful advice and techniques that I applied to my work. He had been equally dismissive of that, accusing me of "thinking you're too good for traditional methods!" He hadn't banned me from the forge, of course - I was too useful an apprentice for that - but he had watched me like a hawk, ensuring that no Dwarven techniques were used for his projects when I worked on them. Personal projects, like my sword or Drevin's shield, were another matter.

But the problems mostly stemmed from his old-fashioned, narrow-minded view of the people of the world. He constantly made insulting, demeaning remarks about my companions, bringing his beliefs to the table and leaving them there like a half-rotted squash. "Ain't decent, boy, running around the forest like that! And with three women in tow, to boot! Did you go off and become a warlord when nobody was looking? Bring your stable of concubines with you wherever you go?" I was spared any further embarrassment, luckily, when Lethe stood up and made it clear that SHE was the warlord, and the rest of us - myself included - were her harem. This stunned the old man long enough for me to ask what he was even doing out here. Present company forgotten, he explained that he'd been scouring the land for 'ancient smithing secrets'. Knowing his disdain for outsider's ways, I did not believe for a moment that he was telling us the truth, but it didn't matter, anyways. When he'd come to the cave to rest for the night, his prized hammer, his portable anvil, and a chunk of rare ore were stolen. And by Taclak, no less! I was concerned by this rebel band, so far from home, until I realized that they must have followed him.

Deciding that it would be useful to clear the ruins, and a generally good thing to prevent the rogue tribe of troublemakers from hurting anybody else, we agreed to help - on the condition that Feldwyr would shut his mouth, and also pay us for our help. This was mostly Deru's negotiation, and I was certainly not about to argue with her. His word grudgingly given, we set off into the ruins, our formation tighter than it normally would have been as I explained the ways of the Taclak to the others. "They're hunters," I recited, "and not much else. Their entire society revolves around hunting, and celebrating their hunts. Nothing more, nothing less. They have no gods, arts, or culture beyond hunting the largest and most dangerous beasts they can find. Their Trackers can throw a spear with enough force to spit a Vulk, and their Bashers can crush stone with their clubs. The more decorated they are, the more dangerous they are, and their chieftains are the ones with the most kills to their names. Be careful, and don't pick anything up. They go ballistic at the thought of anything taking trophies from them."

Of course, that is the secret to dealing with Taclak. One member of the group is designated the 'Bait', so to speak, and provokes the ire of every Taclak they can. This is most easily done by dropping some shiny trinket and quickly picking it back up. The Taclak, too stupid to realize that the Bait dropped it, will fly into a frenzy of murderous rage. They will forget that all else exists, and become determined to slay the intruder who dared to take their precious trophies. Alternately, the Bait can simply pick up something shiny already on the floor - the Taclak have arcane rituals of determining whose claim is on what trinket, but all of them will despise any intruder that dares to usurp their pecking order. In my unfortunate case, I was the best armored and most experienced, and it fell upon me to draw their aggression, while Lethe directed the others to focus their attacks on the weakest Taclak first. 

Smoothing my breathing, I went first, room by room, drawing the ire of the Taclak by snagging the first shiny thing I could find, and then holding them off until my companions had killed them. It was brutal and fierce fighting, but we made it through, in the end. More to the point, we even discovered what the blacksmith had been seeking. An ancient and powerful bow of Dryad make, forged and bound with powerful vampiric energies, whose arrows would devour the vitality of struck foes for the bow to channel back into its carrier. The horrid weapon even generated its own arrows, somehow, the black shafts simply forming on the string as it was drawn back. Deru got this weapon, of course - after I had Lethe's word that she would keep an eye on her Dryad friend. With a knowing smirk, she assured me that she'd watch Deru's back, if I watched Taar's a little more.

When we returned to Feldwyr, he was...less than polite. But when Lethe took him by the throat, and I showed no interest in assisting him, he retracted his idiotic statement that "Women can't be real warriors," paid us what he owed, and left in peace. The morning after, we carried on our voyage - the others very generously allowing the matter of Feldwyr remain unspoken. I'd never defend the things he said, of course, but the fact that he was my former teacher spoke volumes. I was actually considering how best to breach the subject when we came upon a locked door in our path. It seemed to be a small cottage, built into a wall that sat at the foot of the mountainous peaks. Beyond the wall I could see a large cavern opening, marked with old Dryad writing denoting it as the passageway through the mountains. I was warming up to simply kick it down, as nobody had answered my knocking, when an annoyed voice called from within, "Hold up! I'm coming!"

The door opened to reveal a youngish-looking man, human, with a handful of throwing knives braced and ready to fling. Upon seeing us, however, he set them down, with a sigh of relief. "Xeria Almighty, I'm glad to see some reinforcements. My squad went nuts and tried to kill me, but you guys don't look infected. They send you from Windstone, or are you another merc band?" I told him our story - once he had promised not to attack us - and he seemed crestfallen at the explanation - and the fact that nobody seemed to be aware of the troubles where he had come from. "That means the messengers are all dead," he surmised, sinking into the chair beside the fireplace. "Same as my squad. None of them could see the damn ghosts, either, and they got possessed by them. Damn ghost plague!"

Concerned by this statement, I asked him what he meant - and as he explained, it became clear enough. Evidently, the plague wasn't a disease at all, but rather spread by floating, murderous wraiths, possessing living beings and infecting them with a hateful bloodlust. Yes, I assure you, it was every bit as strange to me as it is to you. According to the soldier, the infected killed and killed until they were torn apart, showing a frenzied rage that sustained them beyond the point of mortal injury. The problem with the wraiths, though, was that most people could not see them. Having been recalled to Windstone Fortress, Vix - as he explained his name to be - had chosen to lead his men through Kithraya Caverns, where we were headed. This had proven to be a mistake, however, as his men fell prey to the invisible ghosts, unable to see them as Vix could. I offered him our aid, such as it was, uncertain of our ability to fight invisible things, yet convinced we could kill anything. He led us into the Caverns, spinning his array of knives eagerly in his hands.

Though we began to encounter plagued - or possessed, rather - animals quickly, there was no sign of his men. Upon reaching a fork in the road, I chose the lower path, to our right. I felt drawn in that direction, somehow, compelled to follow it. Obviously, this was a stupid thing to do, and my companions really should have stopped me when I could only say that the path "felt right". It led us into the Kithraya Hives, breeding grounds for monstrous insects that had claimed the caverns in the decades since the Dryads had abandoned them. At the end of this path sat the Kithraya Queen, a gigantic insect that immediately sent her drones to assault us. We fought them off, and after a punishing fight, we slew the Queen. I took her head, as a trophy, and was delighted to find a gleaming golden shield among the assorted treasures webbed against the wall. A Shield of Lorethal! It matched my helmet, of course, though the edges were finer. A piece from a nicer suit, most likely, and with a pair of gauntlets to match. I joked that at this rate, I could simply retire on the profits of selling my gear, which earned me a reproachful look from both Deru and Vix - one a chronic adventurer, unable to sit still for five minutes, and the other a professional soldier, unable to forsake his duty. Taar laughed, though, which was nice. As she finished transmuting the excess plunder into gold - who needs six spare helmets, after all? - we backtracked through the Hive, taking the leftmost path that led us out into fresh air...and horror. Let's not forget the horror.

Vix's men stood waiting for us, their forms unnaturally still, except for the one man curled up on the ground. Bloodied and shivering, he feebly struggled against the boots of his comrades. Even as we approached, a glowing-blue figure swooped low, a legless humanoid wraith that circled his body once before plunging into his chest. The transformation was immediate and awful, as he jerked and twitched, spurs of bone growing from fragile joints, growths of heavy claws exploding from his fingertips. Vix let out a furious bellow and began flinging knives with deadly accuracy, complemented by Deru's arrows, Lethe's lightning, and Taar's ice. By the time I reached the foes, all that was left was another wraith. No time to think, I swept my sword through it, screaming my rage in a futile gesture to...completely obliterate it, somehow. Surprisingly enough, the ghost melted under my assault, torn in two like any other foe would have been.

I turned to explain myself to my companions - but as it happened, they had seen it, too. Their eyes had not been fooled, as so many others were. Putting this mystery aside, I led them to the hilltop - where we saw two things. First was the seashore, a white-sand beach marred only by a small black rock arch. Second, though, was a large shard of red crystal, easily twenty feet tall - through which was already emerging a new wave of wraiths. As one, we turned our focus on the ghosts and their crystal, shattering both with our concentrated fury. Once destroyed, the crystals simply collapsed into dust, disgorging no further adversaries. I stepped over the marred soil to find the Scholar beside the arch, a kind smile on his wrinkled face. He began to explain the plague's nature, and I allowed him to do so. He told me little that I did not already know. Beyond my knowledge, however, he explained the origins of the shards:

According to him, a thousand years ago, the great conflict between Azunai the Defender and Zaramoth the Usurper had shattered the land, creating the Great Cataclysm. The unleashed power had drawn the souls of every warrior on the field, man and creature alike, into the ley lines deep beneath the ground, the River of Souls that had turned to crystal and imprisoned them. Despite former allegiances, they were now antithetical to life, and sought only to destroy all things they found. Still uncertain of why I and my comrades could see them, I thanked the Scholar for his advice, and he gave me one more piece: Those who were opposing the Morden, opposing Valdis the Oathbreaker, were gathering at Windhelm Fortress. The portal beside him would take us almost all the way there. I thanked him, and led my party of ragtag warriors through the rift.

As they say, we stepped out of the frying pan, and into the flaming desert.


	6. Quest 6: Deserted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which sand, spirits, and snakes conspire to annoy and infuriate our intrepid heroes.
> 
> "How many times do I have to say it? The boy has all the charm and tact of a sack of angry cats. If you ever need somebody convinced, don't look to Koris for a solution. He'll just screw it all to hell. On the other hand, if you need to lose a bunch of friends, just ask him to talk to them. Odds are good, they'll hate him within ten minutes, and you by proxy!"

So. The desert. Let me just start off by saying that I hate the desert, alright? Any desert. Every desert. Sand and rocks and poisonous vermin as far as the eye can see. I'd be happy to never see another desert as long as I live. They suck, is what I'm saying. But here we were, stuck in the sun-baked ass of the world, surrounded by sun-stuck soldiers manning the outpost we had just showed up in, and a pack of mangy asshole hyenas that had arrived to snack on them. The ensuing melee was brief, and hardly memorable, and we drove the pack of scavengers off long enough for the soldiers to repair their barricade.

"Who in Xeria's extraneous ballsack are you miserable prawns?"

That was the sergeant in charge, of course. She seemed furious at the interruption, and glad that she wasn't being eaten, but didn't have any idea how to properly express both at once. I explained who we were, why we were there, what we hoped to gain, our destination, and probably would have shared my boot size if Vix hadn't stepped in. He knew the soldiers, and got us directions from her...not that it was easy.

"Well see, there was a big-ass avalanche. The pass is completely cut off. We're basically waiting on the engineers to dig it out, but for some reason, they haven't. To get around it, you'll need a decent map of the desert. To get one of those, of course, you need to find your way to this old Azunite chamber out here. They called it a 'Navitorium', so it presumably has maps. Not that we know, of course - the Skath bastards are distrustful of any outsiders, so you'll need a silver tongue to persuade them to let you through their territory."

Obviously, that didn't happen. We had barely set foot in the first Skath outpost when they attacked. Eight feet tall, and bearing the worst traits of hyena and boar, the Skath society was composed primarily of artifact worship, and secondarily of murdering anything that moved, with a final focus on cramming those dead things into their mouths. Smeared in blood and crusted with sand, they threw themselves onto our blades - into our teeth, to use a horrifyingly fitting saying - with reckless abandon. They died in droves, and when it was all over, I snagged the Azunite hunk of junk they had been fawning over, and we were one magic stick closer to our goal. Presumably. I figured the damn thing had some kind of value, and if it wasn't useful, it'd make a fine trophy. The next three camps were the same: Skath guarding relics, dying like flies in a blizzard for the joy of bloodshed itself. And so we found ourselves in the Shrine, faced with four slots that perfectly fit the Azunite sticks, and a massive sandstone door. Obviously, we slotted them in, matching symbols on the rods to the ones painted above the holes, and as the sandstone door rolled aside, we entered the 'Navitorium' to find the map.

We found it, eventually, ancient and flaking and far too fragile to move. Rather than just take the damn thing, I had Taar make several copies. Two for each team member's packs, and one more for easy reach in my belt. Preparation was important, after all, and if we got split up, I wanted us each able to get to Windstone fortress. Not that it was marked, of course, but Vix knew the place well enough to make an educated guess. Not that and of my preparation was necessary, but hell, I'd rather be safe than dead. The silver mirror beside the map, of course, I took - if only out of paranoia. I made a mental note to return it later, which...it occurs to me I never did. The mirror is actually sitting on my desk as I write this, not three feet away, where my great-great grandaughter likes to play with it. But that's another story entirely.

Following the map led us to another ruin, another vault, another puzzle. Two dozen statues stood on turning bases, their arms upraised to hold silver mirrors identical to the ones I had taken. It was a simple matter to figure out, of course: The statues reflected the lone shaft of light from the sky, and I turned them on their bases to reflect the resulting beam into the gem mounted to the central mound in the room. I had a brief flash of grief as I remembered Drevin's love of such puzzles. The times I had followed him into trouble in order to appease his lust for intellectual stimulation could fill another book....and perhaps it will, once I've finished relaying this only-slightly-more-important tale. Regardless, the puzzle was simplicity itself. Once the beam hit the gem, reflected from sky to mirror to mirror to gem, the entire cave floor in the center of the maze of statues lifted up, revealing a staircase down to yet another vault.

In the vault, unsurprisingly, sat the Azunite Scholar from earlier, who was kind enough to reveal to me another dose of hearty wisdom and special secrets. I'll admit that my frustration was mounting at this time, but patience - and Taar's offer of some water - stilled my rage. I realized, suddenly, that the Dryads were faring far worse than we were, and I immediately passed them my water bucket. Don't give me that look, it was sealed. I drink a lot of water, alright? Anywho, the Scholar.

Excited by his studies, I nearly jumped back as he raced to me, embracing me and declaring us cousins. When I asked for clarification, he told me that not only was I an Azunite myself, but a descendant of Azunai himself! ...or at least, the Scholar believed that. To this day, I have no idea if it was true or not, but I was willing to believe it at the time. He told me some stories of famed Azunites, even of Azunai's closest followers, and - at my urging - he taught Taar a useful spell that would - for a small cost of mana - hydrate and nourish us even in the most arid climates. She cast it immediately, and we all felt better about it. 

In fact, the Scholar told us, each of my companions carried Azunite blood in their veins, allowing them to see the wraiths and refuse possession. Destiny, he claimed, had brought us together. I recall being skeptical, postulating that perhaps some grand, evil conspiracy had united us instead, and was using it for its own evil ends. He laughed that off, and I had to admit: it sounded improbable, once the words left my lips. As I stood to leave, the Scholar seemed sad that he could not join me. He instead handed me a small wooden bowl, and assured me that inside Windstone Fortress, I would find a "Weapon of unspeakable power, capable of purging the Wraiths from the Fortress and breaking the ongoing stalemate. Hopefully, it would also gain me allies against Valdis' armies, to help in the inevitable fight.

We thanked him and moved on, through the passageway that lead us down several mountain passes, through another couple Skath encampments, past the lairs of dozens of murderous creatures...and into Windstone Fortress' grand entryway. Of course, the Wraiths that we saw were nowhere to be seen - but the only defenders of the fortress were possessed, plagued victims of the wraiths' depredations. All we could do was kill them quickly, and put them out of their suffering - and ours. Vix, in particular, needed an eye kept on him. Despite his skill with throwing knives, from time to time, he would hurl himself at one specific plague soldier or another, tearing them to ribbons with a pair of daggers held awkwardly in white-knuckled fists. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks, streaking through the blood and gore on his skin, as he put his former friends and loved ones to their final rest.

When we came to the secondary defenses, we found survivors. Soldiers, trapped between the possessed within the keep and the possessed in the outer ring. They stood near a pit, within which stood a surly-looking half-giant. Sartan, as I learned his name to be, was imprisoned for killing his fellow soldiers. Of course, his defense was simple: he saw them become possessed, and was killing foes before they could bring their weapons to bear. This, of course, marked him as a fellow descendant of the Azunites, making him a valued ally. Upon agreeing to take him on as my responsibility, Sartan was granted his freedom - and joined my band of travelling crazy people as another sword arm. An expert with an axe and shield, he proved himself a useful tank, an immovable wall of steel and muscle that saved my life on many occasions. But first, I took him aside, and made a simple, solemn oath.

"So long as you stand at our side, so long as you are an ally, I will fight and bleed and kill and die for you. You are my brother. But if you ever turn your weapons against us - should you ever turn traitor - I will not hesitate to kill you." He agreed, seeming almost shaken - if that were even an emotional state the braggart was capable of. I still have my doubts on the matter. But I suppose it matters little. He joined us, and in time, we came to be great friends.

With another ally gained, we ventured into the Vault, where I found...something. A font of blue fire, which I was somehow able to contain in the bowl. Once it was filled, the fire stayed within the wooden confines, cold and passive. I even stuck my finger in, to no effect, proving that whatever the fire was, it was safe to carry. Safe-ish. Safe enough. Fire in one hand and blade in the other, I kicked in the sacred doors of the Temple of Xeria and proceeded down, headed for the deepest vaults, and whatever Weapon might reside within. Finally, we found ourselves faced with a glowing blue barrier, the same color as the bowled fire, behind a statue of a woman with her arms upraised, as if holding something bowl-shaped. When I set the bowl in its hands, the blue flames erupted forth, pouring through the Temple and the Fortress, forcing the Wraiths out as it destroyed their vessels, yet leaving us unscathed.

Of course, the wraiths were not destroyed, just driven from their bodies. Do you know what happens when eight thousand wraiths are forced to take shelter in the body of a common rattlesnake? Let me give you a hint. It's forty feet tall, and it has three massive snake heads. One of those heads casts healing spells on the other two, the next breathes corrosive toxic gasses, and the third one can bite through reinforced steel or heavy stone - when it's not spitting flaming bile at its foes. It took us the better part of an hour to kill the bastards - bards would later name it the "Tri-lisk", like some sort of triple Basilisk - but we eventually got the job done. Shattering the Soul Shard behind it was easy, without any bodyguards...and beyond the shard was something that set my teeth on edge.

We stood before an ancient Elven portal, one that could deliver us to a number of destinations on a good day. Of course, the device was damaged, and only one end location was available. Aman'lu. My home...and Drevin's. I wondered what I would tell his family. My family. Taar seemed to notice how I felt, and she took my hand, her guileless smile as brilliant as always. "It's alright," she told me. "The worst of it is behind us."

Gods above and below, I wish she had been right.

We stepped through the portal.


	7. Quest 7: Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which bridges are mended, fires are quenched, and a Prophet loses his head for no good reason.
> 
> "Koris is a strange one. He fights when he should run. He defends when he should attack. And he out-thinks foes that should be able to run circles around him, negating their advantages in favor of his own. Aye...that's the stuff legends are made of. Too bad he's such an idiot, huh? Half-giants never amount to anything. Everybody knows that."

We emerged into Aman'lu in the town center, not ten feet from the tavern I knew - or rather, what was left of it. Scorched wooden beams showed in the gaping hole in the second floor, a chunk taken out of it by some sort of blast. All around me, buildings bore the same signs of damage, and minuscule fires burned in patches. Blue and green, they were clearly magical in origin, and should have been put out by the village's defenses. Specifically, the Elen'lu Isles and the Prism there should have been activated. The fact that they weren't didn't bode well for the situation. The voice snapping out my name jolted me back to reality.

"KORIS!" It was Finala. My mind froze. I was overcome with emotion, my muscles locked in surprise. I realized with a start that I hadn't thought about her once since I'd met Taar. What did that mean? Did it mean anything? What would Drevin say? Had he even known of my childish infatuation with her? I turned slowly, and only had time to open my mouth before I was blasted off my feet, slammed into the tavern's wall with enough force to concuss me. My vision swam into focus to see Finala, advancing on me with a murderous glare in her eyes, the channeled energies of her staff searing my retinas with their eldritch light. She was closing in for the killing blow, the fury of a bold of lightning caged by her will and her rage alone, and all I could do was wonder who would be the one to tell my sister what had happened. And then, everything went white, and I suppose I must have passed out from the attack.

In the days to follow, of course, I learned precisely why she was so mad: The town's damage had been done by Valdis and his Archmage. They had come here seeking another Aegis, a relic that had been held in our vaults, but the Elder had already sent it away. In their rage, they had devastated the town. My town. My home. The place I'd always sworn I'd build a home. The place Drevin and I had forged our bonds of brotherhood. The place my sister lived.

I awoke later, itself a surprise, only compounded when I opened my eyes to see Taar tending to my wounds. Lethe's voice rang out nearby, provoking an angry retort from Finala. I had no idea what the two of them were arguing about, but my concussed mind fixated on the obvious: I was not stupid enough to get in the middle of it. Elsewhere, I heard Sartan and Vix boasting about their skills, with Deru chiming in from time to time to call them idiots - or to offer her own boasts. My mind still swimming, I managed to open my mouth, trying to thank Taar for patching my wounds. What came out instead was "You are so beautiful." What can I say? It's the old Agallan charm.

She just froze, staring at me in surprise. I had about two seconds to try and correct myself, or apologize, or do something. Instead, all I managed was, "You're kind and sweet and you care so much. I don't deserve somebody so perfect in my life." Obviously, that was the concussion talking. My first crush had nearly killed me, and all I had to say to the Dryad that saved my life was sentimental crap about feelings? Concussion, obviously. It didn't matter that it all was true, because that clearly wasn't the time for it. I tried to say something more, but the fog closed back in, and I passed out again.

I don't know how long I spent unconscious, but when I returned, very little had changed. Finala and Lethe argued, Sartan and Vix boasted, but the Dryads were nowhere to be seen. Feeling a little better, I found my way to the door, and slammed it open, silencing the conversation with my sudden entrance. I capitalized on the silence, moving to my pack, and taking Drevin's shield, hammer, and medallion. I still had a job to do. Finala, at the very least, understood the situation, and had the decency to sit down. Lethe understood, as perhaps few others could, the loss of a friend so dear. Maybe I'm a touch charming for my kind, but we don't make many close friends, as a general rule. Sartan and Vix understood, being soldiers, but Deru and Taar had no idea what was going on. Each of them stepped forwards, to ask me what the hell I was doing, but Lethe and Finala intercepted them, quietly pulling them aside to explain. At the time, I hardly noticed.

The house where Drevin and I grew up was still standing, for the most part. The roof was singed, and the door was cracked, but the walls still stood. I knocked on the door, mind racing, trying desperately to think of what to say. What COULD I say? What words could possibly convey what had happened? How Drevin had given his life for me? How I had stood with the Morden, the evil scourge spreading across the land, the very same foe that had nearly destroyed Aman'lu? But when the door opened, there was no need for words. My sister crashed into my legs, even as Drevin's sister and mother grabbed me from the other side. I had to stop my instinctive combat urge to shove them away, however. This was no attack, but a homecoming. We stood there, a family, for what seemed like an age, before they invited me inside.

Drevin had sent his sister a letter, just before we left. His visions of his own death had been strong, much more so than many of his people. He knew how and why he would die - and he told his sister that I would return. That I was to keep his medallion, that it would keep me from harm. That by carrying it, I would honor his spirit, and allow him to still watch over me, no matter where I went. I don't recall exactly what was said, by any of us, but I do know that I returned his shield and hammer to his family. I spent the night there, comforting my sister...or rather, my sisters. After the ordeals we had gone through together, Drevin and I were brothers. Family. Blood may not have been shared, but we were family nonetheless. In the morning, Taar came to see if I was alright, and of course, the family made a big fuss over her. They joked and laughed and asked me when I planned on marrying her, and fortunately, they didn't pick up on Taar's blush. With chlorophyll running in her veins, after all, it was just a green tint to her green skin. Hard to notice for people that didn't spend much time around Dryads. I noticed, of course, and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. As for me, well, half-giants don't blush. That's a well-documented fact.

Though our goal was clear - recovering the Aegis that Valdis sought, which had been sent to Snowbrook Haven - there was something that had to be done, first. I asked my friends to stay behind in Aman'lu while I went out to activate the Elen'lu Prism, to put out the magical fires of the city. Luckily for me, they refused, and insisted on accompanying me. Along the way, we ran into Arinth the Mad - yes, THAT Arinth, the mad sorcerer of ancient legend. If you've never heard of him, open up any book of Elven mythology. Long ago, Arinth decided to become a god, and crafter a staff of fantastic power to make this goal a reality. Fortunately, the actual gods struck him down, refusing his godhood and binding him in a prison of magic and stone and blood.

It seems he had escaped his prison, and took us for his enemies. Were it not for my friends, the mad old elf would almost certainly have killed me. But as it happened, we killed him - finishing a job the gods could not, by the by - and Lethe claimed a good harvest of magical gear from the mage's corpse. Beyond this foe, however, we found that the Taclak had overrun the Elen'lu Isles, and taken the crystals from the focusing array, leaving the Prism without power. Luckily, I knew the area, having grown up playing on the floating islands drifting through the air in their complex dance. I knew the patterns they would take, and the timing on the passages. The Elen'lu Isles became a battleground, and far more Taclak perished in its waters, hurled from the isles by Sartan and I, than perished by our weapons. If we had fought them in conventional ways, we may not have survived. 

With the Taclak bested, we slotted the crystals back into place, and the Prism burst into glorious life, a radiant cascade of emerald light settling over the area. Fires were doused, wounds soothed, and the Taclak were driven once more back into their lairs, terrified of the coruscating power arising to defend the land. The teleporter just outside the Isles was activated as well, and we took this back to the Primary Teleporter in the center of Amanlu's mercantile district. Thankfully, the stone Deru had given me was more than willing to establish and maintain its connection to this - and, to my delight, the stone in the heart of Eirulan was also a Primary! I could return to either town from any teleporter stone in the world, so long as I kept my stone intact.

Upon our return, two faces stood out from the crowd: Finala and Amren, each armed and outfitted for an expedition into the wilds. As I made my way through the crowd - many of whom were happier to see me now than they ever had been before - the two of them explained their predicament. Finala wanted to ensure that I was truly set against the Morden, as though Drevin's death hadn't set me on that path enough, whereas Amren was guided by visions of his own. Not visions of his death, but of a mystical treasure he was to recover for his people. Reminded of my adventures in Eirulan, I welcomed him along - but asked him to wait while I consulted Elder Celeb'hel on some matters.

The old man was thrilled to receive the Lost Sapphire - remember that, from way back in the Elven Shrine, with the plague-healing water? I told you I'd return it to its rightful people. The Elder even hugged me, which was a touch strange, but then again, it was an incomprehensibly ancient artifact of his people, last work by the gods themselves. Who was I to argue? Lightened of a substantial burden, both emotional and physical - all those trophies I took really weighed me down, so I left them with my family - I took one last look at my home before gathering my band of intrepid adventurers and setting out, off into the Vai'lutra Forest and onward towards Snowbrook Haven.

Of course, that was our mistake: Fixing a destination in mind. As it turned out, the Vai'lutra Forest was overtaken by a band of feral elves known as the Vai'Kesh. They had corrupted their forest, using some sort of powerful artifact, and blocked off most of the paths. We hacked and carved a bloody swath through the forest, cutting down the plagued and blood-maddened creatures that had once been peaceful herbivores, until we found ourselves in the heart of the Vai'Kesh Sanctuary. Bad move, obviously. They declared us invaders, and attacked. Luckily, a bunch of desiccated, diseased, half-dead, half-lich elves weren't all that much trouble for us. And since I grew up fighting REAL elves, with their fast blade work and elegant movements, these rotting messes were no match for my capabilities.

We killed our way free of the Sanctuary, stumbling entirely by mistake upon the Vai'Kesh Prophet himself! And if you're anything like me, you'll be surprised to learn that they even had a Prophet. He rambled about the end of the world, prophecies of unspeakable horrors and the end of the 'impure' elves, and the might of their glorious murderous beast. I saw no reason to stop his ranting, because it gave me a great chance to run up and hack him to pieces. Sure, his body kept fighting without its head, but it wasn't much of a fight. The REAL fight came in the cave we went to next, in the form of a fifty-foot-tall plant monster. Right. "Murderous Beast". Obviously, the fact that I was surprised meant that I hadn't paid much attention to his rant.

Deru and Taar were understandably upset about having to kill a plant, but given that it drank blood and wanted to add ours to its diet, the rest of us had few enough qualms. The beast went down eventually, torched and sliced and frozen and pierced several hundred times over. We found out the hard way that Lethe's Drown spell, usually filling a foe's lungs with water, instead nourished the creature, as will watering a plant - and Finala's command of Death magic only strengthened it. Eventually, however, we managed to shred the damned thing, and we found the source of its unnatural powers to be the Aegis of Death, the very artifact Celeb'hel had sent off to Snowbrook Haven to be protected! The Vai'Kesh must have waylaid the soldiers carrying the tablet, and taken it for themselves, leading to the leafy abomination that had tried to mulch us. Confused but victorious, we emerged into...well, not daylight, but close enough.

We could have turned around, then and there. I'm just saying. We could have. Things might have turned out better if we did.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the snow proves no more friendly than the sands.
> 
> Koris is like a damn Kraal hound: He ruins every damned plan he comes into contact with, and just won't die! That said, I'm advising that you award him the Badge of Courage, and send him the hell away. Send him out to the Taclak! He'll ruin their days and our village will stay safe!"

Stepping through the portal to our next locale, I couldn't help but notice that it was snowing, and also frigid. Deru began a string of profanity that lasted well over two minutes, while Lethe and Finala saw to ensuring that everybody was warm. This was difficult for the Dryads, of course, adapted as they were for a hot jungle climate, but we got it sorted out after a while. For myself, of course, this was a cakewalk. Half-Giant skin is notoriously thick, and Sartan and I even enjoyed a brief snowball fight before Deru threatened to castrate us with our own swords. Grinning but accepting this fact, we pressed on, through an old graveyard known as the Garden of the Ancients.

Now, before I continue, I'm sure you know about the Azunites. A tribe of proud, noble warriors, followers of Azunai the Defender, whose dead were interred in crypts to guard over their treasures forevermore. As it turns out, that's not a figurative deal. They still walk and fight and crave the blood of the living. I'll generously assume that last bit is a new development, and not just call them a race of crazy, twitchy, murdery vampires. We knew we had to go through a specific crypt to reach Snowbrook Haven, but with the Azunite dead so riled up, all signs and tracks were obscured. So we simply went into one crypt at a time, smashing corpses to pulp and looting everything that wasn't nailed down. In retrospect, not the most respectful thing to do, but we managed to dig up four ancient Death Masks from the crypts of Azunite Champions before we made it to the right place. Good thing we did, too. Less good is that we had to FIGHT three of the aforementioned Champions, and tear the masks from their leathery, undead faces. Tough bastards. Luckily, the fourth Champion was absent, perhaps taking a nap somewhere else.

A Revenant stood watch over the crypt we were after, a long-dead sentinel charged with maintaining the doorway, and held up a hand to stop us as we approached. He told us that he and his brothers had stood watch over this place, but the other three had died. They were buried nearby, but missing them, he asked if we could recover their death masks. He said that if we brought him all three, he would let us pass, and even give us a key that would allow us full access to the secret passages. He seemed to think we were Azunites, too - but the point became moot when Lethe presented him with all four masks - those of his brothers, and his own. Realizing his own undead state, he fell to his knees, shock and horror overtaking him as his memories returned. Out of respect, I'll gloss over the next half-hour of screaming on his part, comforting on the part of some of our party, and very deliberate aversion of attention on the part of the others. I'm not saying I didn't know a thousand-year-old zombie could cry, but it was more than a little awkward.

By the time he was becoming coherent, I decided to ask if there was anything we could do to help. "The lich! That damnable lich," he cried, pounding a fist to the frozen ground. "Damn him! Damn his cronies! Damn them all to hell! Letiso! The name of the lich, the bastard that enslaved my soul! Within the crypts, you will find his sigil upon the ground. Brothers and sisters, I beg of you. Call the Lich forth and destroy him, that he may never again compel those of our proud Azunite blood! Destroy him, and take vengeance for us all!" He didn't seem to have anything else useful to say - but as we watched, he simply began to fade away, clutching the masks to his chest. Wherever he went, whatever green pastures awaited him, he took the masks with...and I quietly hoped that he would find his brothers again. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice so soft that to this day, I cannot be sure he spoke at all. We stood in silence a moment, paying our respects, before Sartan broke the moment. "BORED NOW! Let's go kill some lich's ass!" He was right, of course, albeit rude. We didn't have time to spare for the ghost of a warrior - but a lich was a threat to any and all.

We found the Sigil, easily enough. Speaking the name Letiso, I summoned forth the lich, who began to recite some long speech about death and servitude and suffering. The collective force of our assault cut the abomination to shreds before it even realized that we weren't listening. The downside to undeath, it seems, is a lack of pain receptors. By the time it raised its staff to retaliate, it had no staff to lift. Nor arms to lift it with. And I could see the realization dawning as my blade shattered its phylactery, bringing a true, final death to Letiso the Lich. Among the loot it had guarded was the ring of an Azunite Champion named Rahvan - which must have been the guardian at the door. In recovering it, I was assuring that none would ever compel his spirit again. After our adventure, I buried it away, a final funeral for the Champion who had suffered so horribly at the hands of a monster. I wish it had been the only such final rites. But I will explain those others, in time.

The frozen halls of the Azunite catacombs beyond the lair of Letiso were overrun with the dead, walking and shrieking and trying to kill us, but we were strong - and likely more numerous a party than those who had come before. The frozen corpses of those who had failed were every hundred feet or so, and we scavenged what we needed from them. Don't judge, they didn't need that crap anymore. Trinkets, gold, potions, anything shiny or valuable. Each body was stripped of equipment, which Taar transmuted into useful component materials, and the bodies put to the flame by Lethe to keep any other would-be necromancers from raising them. New and old dead alike, we burned to ash. As we did, we made our way through the crypt, carefully and efficiently, keeping a tight formation to avoid any ambushes or over-extension of our forces. Every so often, Sartan and I would form a vanguard at the front, simply holding our ground and bellowing at our foes to distract them. I will never admit it to his face, but Sartan is an excellent example of our kind - and perhaps some day, he will realize as such.

The real problem was the cold. Damn their zombie hearts, the cold didn't slow them a bit, but our warm-blooded bodies had substantially more problems than they did. More than once, I found my armor sticking to my own skin along the unprotected edges, where the padding had been ripped away or rolled back. It wasn't so much a problem for myself and Sartan, of course, but the others were slowed, and the occasional patches of ice made footing treacherous. Falling icicles? Yet another hazard. I could have been crushed, impaled, frozen, and embarrassed to death if they hadn't shattered on my helmet. As it was, I was concussed, and left with a Lorethal helm that was less a functional helmet than it was a slightly tacky, remarkably flattened hat. 

Eventually, we made our way to the catacombs, where we stumbled upon the workshop of a Dark Wizard, one of the half-dozen or so ancient and powerful creatures working for Valdis. We had a moment of shock and confusion with him staring at our odd group of lunatics and savages, and us staring at the tusk-faced, once-human aberration before us. His face was a patchwork of scars and oddities, where he had grotesquely stitched artifact pieces and beast fangs and relic slivers to his very flesh, bolstering the magical powers of his kind, and firmly renouncing his ties to whatever he had once been. His body (or the basic outline of it) seemed human, but that was clearly a ship that had long since sailed. After a long moment, the tension was shattered, and we all launched into battle, blades and bolts of magic and arrows flashing through the air as the battle was joined.

Sartan and I took the brunt of the assault, shield and armor flashing as the magical defenses took most of the power out of the hostile magic. Taar's protective spells, layered on during our adventures, wrapped around us as well, defensive mantles that stunted the arcane blows against us. Finala and Lethe lashed out with inhuman precision, knowing our movements well enough by now to see openings in our patterns and fire past us. Deru and Amren slipped to the flanks, spearing arrows into the creature with brutal efficiency, aiming for joints and limbs. They intended to cripple the Wizard, to lower his ability to harm us. And Vix...he leapfrogged me entirely, bounding off my upraised arm to fling a brace of knives directly into the wizard's face! It carried on for what seemed like hours, but could only have been a few minutes. We ducked the worst of his spells, and when he attempted to create a shielding crystal to defend himself, Finala simply shredded it with a disruptive spell. Eventually, he staggered back, overbalanced by the sheer weight of our fury.

"You'll never stop us," he ranted. "We are the pure! You mongrels will suffer our wrath before-" Whatever he had to say beyond that was cut off as a sword blade erupted from his mouth, driven through the base of his skull by the woman behind him. Fierce and deadly, with fiery red hair that matched the blaze of her eyes, she shrugged off the last of her bonds, pulling the ornate blade from the Wizard's neck and casually wiping it off on his robes. Her hair was a tangled mess, and her armor was nearly as dented as my own, though of much finer make. "So," said Princess Evangeline, heir to the throne and clearly a veteran warrior herself, "Shall we get going? I think they'll need a hand at Snowbrook Haven."

Yup. Turns out there was a lot going on that we simply hadn't been told. The Princess? She was less a reclusive figure staying sheltered in her castle, and more a restless warrior, set forth into the world by powerful visions of a great cataclysm, and determined to prevent them. She'd taken the royal blade and shield from the armory when she left the capital, daring her father to send soldiers after her to recover the valued artifacts, untouched by royal hands for centuries beyond meaningless ceremonies and preening. The Princess defied tradition, and once more the Blade Of The King shed the blood of enemies of the Kingdom, carried by the hand of the most fearsome warrior to grace the bloodline since Azunai himself. 

Obviously, we left, as there was nothing more to do, and Taar took it upon herself to describe our adventures to the Princess. I felt that she over-emphasized my role in things, of course, but it was hardly something I was willing to make an issue of. We hacked our way through the Morden's side lines, making a beeline for the fortress itself via one of the better-defended side passages. The few Morden that stood guard here faced inwards, and were taken unawares by our party. Approaching the fortress, the Princess raised her shield, the near-noon light of the sun glittering off its emblazoned lion to let the troops know who approached. They opened the door for us, cheering our achievement and the return of a valued figure. Any member of the Royal Family was welcome, of course, but the Princess was a brilliant strategist and a peerless warrior, they assured us. With her around, we couldn't lose!

I should have taken that as a sign, and run the hell away. But damn my idiot self, I stayed.


	9. Quest 9: Sieged!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a party of fools meet - and are nearly killed by - a living legend.
> 
> "War is a funny thing. Maybe you get lucky and die, maybe you draw the short straw, survive, and have to clean up the mess afterwards. Not worth the hassle. I'm going to go back to my old job, taming Plague Beasts. You couldn't pay me enough to stand around with a bunch of soldiers, waiting to see who the lucky ones are."

So.

A castle manned by veteran Legionaries. A warrior princess. An army of bloodthirsty cannibals. A sky filled with Harpies and Wyverns - think Dragons, but smaller and stupider, much better for the Morden to use as flying attack dogs. A battle for the fate of the world, freedom against tyranny, good against evil, Morden against every-

"Uuuugh, I'm so damn BORED!" Sartan's voice cut through my distracted mind, jolting me back to my senses.

"Quiet, Sartan."

"No. Our leader can think while I talk, or else his mind is as feeble as his arm. Stop swooning over him, Taar, you're much better off with me."

The Dryad's outraged response was cut short by braying horns, and our ragtag party of lunatics, criminals, adventurers, and well-intentioned meddlers followed the Princess down the narrow street towards the Inner Keep. Here and there, Morden would drop in, ferried by their Dragon or Wyvern troop carriers, but the heavy ballista launchers exacted a heavy toll as they tried. Later, I actually looked into the statistics of the battle itself, and it astounded me to find that the defenders of Snowbrook Haven slew more than ninety percent of the Dragons carrying troops, the foul beasts shot down by the ballista crews before they could drop their troops, and ninety-six percent of their Wyverns and Harpies were killed. With such a degree of attrition, it should have been obvious that either Valdis or one of his most dangerous creatures were leading the assault. But, as they say, everything is obvious in hindsght.

Durvla began to rain in as well, resembling a Morden's upper body grafted to the top of a hideous crab creature. Of course, being twelve feet tall and heavy with thick chitinous carapace, they didn't fit any aerial transports. Instead, they simply scuttled into catapults for their lesser brethren to lob into the fortress. More than one landed badly, shell shattering into an explosion of gore on impact. Obviously, I was fine with that result, but only perhaps half of them suffered such gruesome fates, and more rained in by the minute, unfurling into murderous masses of hate that distracted the defenders from the Dragon transports. Every soldier that turned their attention to the Durvla menace at their rear was one less soldier manning the defenses that truly mattered.

Teams of Half-Giant soldiers worked in unison, swinging massive hammers to crush the Durvla's chitinous plating that turned swords and deflected arrows. They aimed for leg joints, bringing them down, before crushing their upper bodies - the Morden parts - to pulp. They were clearly veterans, their weapons rising and falling in perfect unison, and the gleaming silver shark insignia on their chests was obviously some sort of mark or identification. Karkos Squad - as I later learned they were called, named for some long-fallen hero - were the most elite troops when it came to fighting the Morden, Ice Elementals, Shrieking Liches, Devouring Rabbits, Displacer Beasts, and other such dangers. And before you ask, yes, I made up one of those animals. It's not the one you think it is.

Now, I was hardly one to slack, but I'll admit I was winded by the time we reached the command post in Snowbrook Haven's inner ring. Eva - she gave me a venomous glare whenever I used her title or full name - practically sprinted from checkpoint to checkpoint, clearly eager to be inside. Of the rest of us, only Vix seemed unimpressed by the trek, and I quietly vowed to stop eating so much cheesy garlic bread. That vow, for the record, lasted nearly two days, and the delicacy remains my favorite even now, nearly two hundred years later. Even as I write this, I have a platter of it beside me, even though tiny hands seem determined to steal pieces when I'm not looking. But, I digress. The battle.

The generals knew of our arrival, of course. Seats and food were already prepared for the heroes who had recovered their Princess. Lethe and Finala collapsed into their chairs, too exhausted to bicker, and Taar also sprawled in her seat, giving me a knowing grin. Sartan boasted that he wasn't even winded, and that he would "only sit down to shame the rest of you lily-livered cowards" - but he couldn't hide his labored breathing, or the sheen of sweat across his brow. I've said it before, and since, and certainly will again, but here it is: Humans certainly are something else. If they could run through the air, they'd have long since colonized and conquered the moons and every star in the sky.

The briefing was quick and efficient, our situation neatly summarized: we were going to win, but the victory would be a costly one, severely weakening the Kingdom's military for at least two decades. Meanwhile, Eva would be trapped here, along with the rest of us. I took a moment to try to recall my purpose. Was I supposed to be stopping Valdis? Protecting the Fortress? Going somewhere? Collecting the Aegis to safeguard it? I knew I would see Valdis dead or die trying, but how best could I achieve my goal? Did the matter of the ghosts and my Azunite blood factor into this? Was it simply a distraction? Did I have a responsibility, as somebody with the power to see them, to protect those who couldn't? Eventually, they asked me my purpose here, and it was all I could do to keep my voice steady.

"I seek the Aegis of Blindness, to prevent Valdis from assembling them and destroying the world."

All conversation ceased. Ten seconds passed, then twenty, all eyes on me in shock and horror until Eva broke the silence: "Help me win this battle, and the Aegis is yours." Chaos erupted at her words, generals and advisers yelling and complaining and bickering incessantly. Luckily, I knew how to end such squabbles, and without waiting for them to die down, I drove my dagger down into the table. I'd seen bold generals and leaders use the tactic before, and I sought to emulate their aura of command. A mistake, as it turned out, because the flimsy table simply shattered beneath my fist.

It stopped the arguing, sure, but only because everybody was now complaining to me. At me, rather. I weathered the storm, ready to offer a sarcastic rebuttal about flimsy engineering and military cost-cutting, when a monstrous roar shook the room and interrupted our lively debate. It was the challenging bellow of a fully-grown Dragon, the sort of beast that terrorized entire nations. Without a single wasted word, we sprang to our feet, the party rallying to me even as I followed Eva. She led us to an elevator, a heavy old beast that groaned and clanked, carrying us to the battlements.

Let me give a little background here: Dragons are absolute monsters. I've killed my share of horrifying things, but Dragons are a world apart. They're cruel and vicious and brutal and massive, but the real problem is that they're damned clever lizards. Oh, right, and the fire. Their blood and saliva is extremely flammable, even the vapors from their open mouths easy to ignite. And ignite they certainly do, thanks to their magical ability to send jolts of lightning jumping and crackling from fang to fang. I've seen it up close a few times, and it never gets any less terrifying.

Of course, the true dangers are the Elder Dragons. Once they get old enough, Dragons experience a massive boost in power and intelligence, becoming more than simple beasts. An Elder Dragon is smart enough to name itself, and their hide becomes nearly impervious. Dragon Slayers boast of their exploits, but most of them - at the time, anyways - had never faced such a beast, and never would. This one had declared itself to be "Talon", and its ascension to Elder Dragon had been several hundred years before.

The thing is, most Elder Dragons had been wiped out by this time. It was before the Winged Resurgence, you see, before the Second Cataclysm, and there were almost no known Elder Dragons left. But somehow, Valdis had found one, and bribed it with promises of wealth and glory. That, or he had crushed its will entirely, forcing it into servitude. Talon was massive even by the standards of his kind, and was methodically scouring the ballista launchers from the battlements. I saw the realization flicker in Eva's eyes even as it hit me: the ballista mounts were a threat to the dragon. And if we knew it, then the damned lizard almost certainly understood it, too.

With a scream of rage, I threw myself into the nearest ballista nest, hacking and slashing the Durvla that had mounted the wall. Perhaps sensing my intent, Talon roared his defiance, the sound rating my bones, and swooped directly at me. I knew there was no retreat, no escape, so I cranked the turret around, hoping desperately that I could turn it quickly enough...despite knowing it was hopeless. As the dragon opened its jaws, I was surprised to find that my last thoughts were of Taar. Kind, gentle Taar, who would not survive this battle to mourn my loss. With a strange detachment, I realized that I loved her, and that we were both about to die without me ever telling her. It struck me as oddly unfair. Which is, of course, when a bolt the size of a javelin speared the creature's neck, driving it to the side with the sheer force of impact. Driving it, in fact, square into the crosshairs of my war machine.

Several things happened at once - or so it seemed, to my dazed mind. Taar's voice rose in a lilting chant, tendrils of ice and stone curling around the head of the ballista bolt, to reinforce the wood and metal and imbue it with her glacial wrath. Lethe and Finala barked out rough, grinding, consonant-laced words of power, drawing forth the powers of Fire and Death, Lightning and Decay, lending their rage and fear to my arrow. Finally, time itself seemed to slow, as would occasionally happen in battle, a moment of clarity brought on by adrenaline and focus. Slowly, as if moving through a swamp, I grabbed the firing mechanism, waited for three or four heartbeats for the perfect moment, and wrenched the lever back.

The bolt launched into the air, and Time resumed its normal tempo, crashing against me like a wave. The explosive energies in the projectile swatted Talon out of the sky, a hammer of force and sound that silenced the battle for a moment. The dragon's feeble screech gave rise to a shriek of despair from the Morden horde. My allies's shouts of triumph catalyzed a roar from the fortress' defenders. The tide of battle was turned, a crumbling defense rallying to reclaim fallen battlements. And who could blame them? Princess Evangeline had returned to them, and struck down the most massive dragon to ever live. How could they possibly fail? The tide of sound swallowed me whole, quenching the bloodlust that had been burning so brightly in me, the adrenaline high fading already. My job was done, the Dragon felled. If I fell then, it would still be worth it.

In the years after the battle, the tale grew again and again. These days, they claim that she flew into battle on a golden griffin, and smote the beast with the sword of Azunai himself. Eva, rest her soul, would not think that very funny, instead insisting on the preservation of history. But I find it hysterical - and I suppose this book should be preservation enough, should History truly need a hand. My companions would agree, I'm sure, that our group effort helped the war - even if Eva got all the credit. Vix never let me hear the end of that, obviously, swearing to his dying day that none of us would have achieved anything without him. When his time came, I swore to him I would build him a proper tomb, one for all of us, and inscribe a granite slab with his glorious deeds. It took me nearly two years, but the Tomb of Heroes stands proudly in Stonebridge, for any and all to visit. Should you ever visit, be sure to pay your respects. I don't trust that idiot to stay dead if he thinks people have forgotten him.

In awe of the spectacle of the Morden lines breaking, their siege turning to a retreat and then to a rout, I never even saw the Durvla drop out of the sky. There was a burst of pain in my skull, before darkness swallowed me, peaceful and calm...but it wasn't to last.

If only.


End file.
